The Roundabout
by Kryteria
Summary: A three year wait was never supposed to be a smooth ride. Rated M for language and later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

Thank you for the read! Depending on the kind of feedback I get I may continue this or I may not. Comments and Critiques are welcomed alike! Thanks again! I don't own District 9 or any of its characters...but dosen't hurt to dream.

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I feel a sense of self-worth wash over me as I solemnly watch the ship in the distance come to life. Despite my extensive injuries, for the first time in days I feel well. I feel lighthearted, hopeful, determined. Listening to the hum of my ill doings rush off into the horizon—I feel I've done well.

Unexpectedly, the patter of feet swims into my surroundings—a steady approach. I hear the quick cock of a gun. The pitter stops just behind me. I know he's here for personal reasons. I slowly flop onto my back to face my tormentor. I've never realized just how tall this man is. I lie gawking at the merciless figure looming over my person. Our eyes meet. I swear I can see my death.

" No wonder everyone wants a piece of you. Half-breed!" he spits the last word, as he looks me over. I lie there on my back, spent, listening to his scornful mocking. I have no fight left in me, and pathetically I feel I've done all I can. I have no regrets leaving now. I silently look up at him, patiently waiting for some sort of monologue, something degrading. Mirroring my demeanor, he raises his gun level to my head, taking one more disdainful look at the monstrosity on the ground before him. It hurts; I understand that I am not worth his time, not even for a mock-goodbye. I never have been.

In my sympathetic musings I've failed to notice the gathering crowd lingering about in the late afternoon shadows. All too quickly, they step forth from beneath their cloaks in unison, surrounding us both. I feel the irony of the situation compound. Without warning the circle of prawns lunge at my former ally, sweepingly tearing him limb from limb. Frozen, I watch the scene unfold. I am mortified; in all of my years working as a field agent I have never before witnessed prawns devouring human flesh. Fearing a gruesome death I instinctually begin to crawl away.

They've finished and are taking notice of me. I can sense them. My vision corkscrews from the exaggerated stench of blood and I halt my desperate creep and turn to watch them surround me once more.

They regard me with disgust, like some ill-begotten animal, like something to be purged of. They see me as the decrepit twin that is to be fed to the pigs come morning. I bow my head away in shame—they have every right. I—this body, is a mockery of Mother Nature! I am sickened to even lay eyes on myself.

The air feels charged around me…I see a child cowering behind a much larger prawn. Both look at me with unease. Christopher? Are you watching this? Resuming my slow retreat I drag myself—open sores and all, across the dirt. I make about three yard before my joints lock and I lie still, disheveled. I grievance, a sob creeps up on me--no one's offered to help me yet! They all stand at arms reach just watching. I am like a virus—none want to touch me, but each is intrigued. I try again for a bit more distance; I know I'm overstressing my tattered body. I gain a few feet then the corners of my vision begin to grow dark.

Unconsciousness, I let it take me.


	2. Chapter 2

Feet…there are so many of them…voices too. So much is happening around me…

My eyes burn—must have a fever. I need to move, get out of the open. Maybe if I can reach that tall patch of grass I can rest there. They'll overlook me. I can't risk capture, not now, not after all this. Three years: it was a promise. Three years and I can go back to my angel and rebuild. Regain what I've lost with the time spent here, with this…sickness. I hear voices…Lord there are so many…

Unexpectedly, I recognize my shoulder being lifted…fucking prawns! When will they learn to let good alone?! I feel pain returning as my skin cleaves at the shoulder—the wound reopening. I sense my body be violently heaved into the air and I feel my stomach lurch. I fight to keep inside what little food I've got in me.

"Hey, Guy! L-let go of me." I manage to wheeze out in one breath. It's all I can force out. I am drained and relax into strong arms when my demand goes unanswered. Soon, another vice grips at my neglected right arm and I whine a protest. The pair of arms tousles my body as they try to balance my weight about themselves. I'm too exhausted to struggle and droop lithely, half hoisted between two bodies.

The two pitch forward together and I feel my body begin to be towed along after them across the dry African land. I'm sure that dust is billowing from beneath me as my feet drag belated, behind the rest of me. I peel open my eyes to try and make out through my vertigo, where it is that I am being hauled off to. I hang my head in defeat as I realize that I have only made myself dizzier. Watching for a moment the hot sand beneath me rush past, I shut my eyes again—this time it's for my own good. I can vaguely make out the hold around my arms tighten before I realize my feet have left the comforts of earth.

Suddenly, I am dropped onto what feels like folded sheet metal, much like the kind used in the dingy prawn shacks dusting District 9. I'm not sure anymore where I'm at and try to pry open my eyes. It's already apparent to me that I am no longer outside, but somewhere.

A sudden shock of white—I can smell anesthetic, but I see nothing. I feel a light rocking, however, despite the immediate pain I find it soothing. I can hear humming, dirt scattering, and…

Voices…I can't understand them…

My vision clears and I look up for a moment, I freeze, surprised to see the face of a young woman smiling down at me. She reminds me of my Tania. I can't wait to get home, cured and with new meaning. I can see it, she would have that same smile: warm and lush, one that shows she's genuinely happy to see me back. My stare lingers on the girl, I can see I'm making her uncomfortable—she turns away, muttering something to her counterpart sitting beside her. She then turns back to me a bit squeamish; ashamed, I avert my eyes.

I lay unmoving, watching uninvolved, the steal inner quarter-panel before my nose. I can hear every rock makes it's mark on the undercarriage, I press my ear closer; I can hear the hum of the engine—feel the roll of the hull. I try to focus on the swaying, my body's shutting down. Gleefully, I oblige it.

* * *

I come too in a rush of adrenaline. Blinded by light and with shaky senses it's apparent to me that I'm strapped to a table. No…why hadn't I realized it earlier. I lay quietly, collecting myself; no point in making a ruckus while no one's around. Sighing to myself, I shut my eyes and try to stay calm; I know exactly how all this will play out.

Groggily I pry my eyes open, great; I've fallen asleep again. I'm not sure how much time has passed since I've been brought here, but I dare not ask. I glimpse a man in sky blue scrubs make his way to me just out of my line of sight. Discouraged, I turn my head to face the ceiling, or more appropriately the glaring lights.

"Hello there, Mr. Wikus. I am glad to see you here with us again. You are doing good, yes?" I only glare up at the ceiling in reply, he continues along unimpeded. "You were in critical condition when we found you, you know. Collectively, it was decided that it would be best for your well being to be taken to this facility to undergo treatment. Your wounds are very serious." He chirped. It sickens me to hear this bullshit; every word has an undertone: each one laced. I grunt at him and explain that I feel fine. I'm not sure he understands me but replies mechanically nevertheless. "Oh yes, I'm sure, but firstly we need to get those wounds clean." "Oh I'm sorry. Mr. Wikus, it seems that you have a visitor. I'll leave you two gentlemen to your selves. " A visitor? Where am I, at a hospital?

I see a shadow approaching the edge of my bed; however, I can't see who it may be yet. Finally, the silhouette cloaks me and I wait for my eyes to adjust. As my vision focuses, my gaze widens. Tania's father?! I am awestruck and cannot formulate words let alone a sentence. I lie there strapped to my table, or perhaps bed—I'm not sure, my mouth agape.

He looks me over, I'm not sure if I see him visibly cringe. His gaze slinks its way up my form to my eyes, but stops short. I'm still silent. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it and just stares at my mangled arm. "Tania's been very worried about you, she hasn't given me a days rest." He keeps his eyes focused on my arm; I don't mind, really. "She tells me that she misses you dearly and has begged me to come find you…" My heart leaps, after such a traumatic few days everything is finally falling into place! I feel warm tears begin to brake free from their wells. He turns to look at me: our eyes finally meeting. I can see he's disgusted but I let my tears fall freely nonetheless. He continues, "She tells me that she wants her husband back, jokingly making a point to beat you if it's women you've been chasing and not suffering from sickness." I feel the need to laugh but only hear a sob tear from my throat.

I can see he's eyeing me cautiously, picking his words watchfully. I smile up at him happy to hear that my humanity has survived at least somewhere. He looks away uneasy, I'm not certain if it's guilt eating at him or something entirely different. I watch him happily through my tears, anxious to hear more news. I feel his hand begin to play with the fabric I've been laying on. He lowers his gaze to watch his hand work. I wait patiently for something more, watching his face. "We need to get you worked on so tha—"

"Tell Tania that I'll be home soon—tell her that there has not been a day where I have not thought of her!" I break him off and begin to fumble through my thoughts before I let the opportunity pass. "Tell her, I love her, th-that I have found a way to fix my arm—this (me)," I blurt between sobs. "Tell her that I'll be back soon, a-and not to worry—that she wont have to look at me like this," Another sob—I really need to stop doing that " Please, Tell her I need her and that I wou-l-ld never do that! Pleas—" I'm broken off by uncontrollable coughing. I look up at her father worriedly; his gaze shies away from me, its understandable. My eyes plead with him to convey whatever little bit of message that was clear.

His eyes clear and he shoots me a warm smile. I am shocked really, and stare blankly at him. I can see him trying to brush off his unease. I try smiling back at him, it's hard for some reason; perhaps my jaw is swollen. He tells me that his time with me is up, and that he needs to leave. I wish him a short farewell and watch him briskly walk out of the room, leaving me to my hospital bed? I look around suddenly feeling better than I had been. I'm still not sure how to process the encounter; he's the last person I would think to see by my deathbed. He was the one who had okayed the surgeons to go ahead and cut me open on scientific grounds.

I feel uneasy; something feels wrong. I try to look about the room; this place is too clean, too quiet and orderly, like a daycare where all the toys are upright and look as if they have never felt the warm hands of children. I try to shift into another position, my leg has fallen asleep and I may need it should the need to run ever arise. I watch the door for a few moments and wonder if anyone's going to come for me or if they're waiting for the rest of me to fall numb.

* * *

I'm sure I've been lying here for at the very least a few hours. I've also been watching what seems to be a one-way window just out of sight, I know it's there I can barely see its corners. I am thoroughly exhausted and feel sleep coming on strong. My lids begin to droop and I feel a fluttery sensation take me.

* * *

Thanks to all you reviewers! Mochi, AngelGardian666, Crazikido—I enjoyed your story and Yxme24, thanks for the vote of confidence! Hopefully this chapter does not disappoint. I would like to hear from you guys where you would like this story to be taken. I love to hear your input! Thanks for reading there's definitely more to come!


	3. Chapter 3

Sleep would come and go, never staying with me for more than a few minutes. It's awkward and straining, I feel more drained than when I had decided to try and rest. My vision beings to cloud again and I'm back on the same ride. Strangely, I am disturbed by a swell of air. The cool breeze wakes me and I begin to shiver. Up until hearing impending footsteps, I hadn't thought the draft to be particularly queer.

I begin to mill over in my mind the fact that there are no windows in this room and only one unmoving door. I turn to look to the hallway entrance; perhaps another visitor has come my way. If I am especially lucky, maybe Tania has come to drop by for a visit. I am hopeful that her father has told her of my whereabouts, though I'll not be altogether surprised if he hasn't. I am a chiefly forgiving individual, quick to move on and eager to forget what wrongs have begotten me.

I snap from my reverie when my vision fills with blue garments. I'm surprised at my uncanny ability to filter out my environment just until it's physically rubbing at my eyeballs. I follow the legs to the torso and up to the masked face starring at a medical clipboard. I groan weakly to try and get his attention. Not surprisingly I'm ignored—I must say, lately, I've gotten quite used to that sort of thing. The physician above me calls out to a colleague, motioning him to stand beside the length of my bed. They exchange a few words and silently read through the rest of the reports.

My patience is beginning to ware thin. For now I bite my tongue, lest I say something to get myself killed—which for the record, I have done on several occasions. I watch the two angrily, but try to find patience. I wait a few moments longer before ultimately snapping.

"That's it, that's enough of this!" I below. "Hey! Is a doctor going to see me! Ay? Or are all of you waiting for me to rot away on this table?! That'd be damn amazing! Right? Amazing?" I give myself a moment to cool down and give them a moment to reply, but again they are nonreactive. My temper spasms and I can feel my voice boom as I lose track of what I have already said and what is being said. A shriek rips from my lunges, as I watch the two not so much as bat an eyelash.

I'm obviously flustered, and now after working myself up, am sweating profusely. "Let me up! Untie me! Take these off, man! Untie me!!" I demand. I no longer care if they notice me—it feels great to scream, to let this anger spill forth. "Hey! You! My friend, do you fucking hear me?! Are you a wall? Is that what I am doing—speaking to a wall!" I begin to struggle. My anger has all but entirely seeped from me and I feel hysteria set in. "Let me go man! Let me leave!!" "I don't want to be here! I've done nothing!"

Nothing can be heard over my frenzied screaming. I am not aware of the several new bodies that have entered the room now, until they take hold of me. There must be four of them, maybe five, restraining me. I hear one curse, as I have successfully ripped free of one of the shackles. I thrash about, frantically trying to gain space from all these animals. I'm beginning to feel increasingly claustrophobic. I feel my body being pressed down roughly and all too suddenly; a cloth is at my lips. I toss my head about in an attempt to stave off the drug, but I feel it…creeping…

* * *

I am slowly beginning to see soft silhouettes. I recognize that I'm lying on tile flooring, and no longer in shackles or clothing. They are still stripping me as I am waking, taking off the bandages crusted to my unsightly arm. They pull free my frayed pants and I am left completely bared. Humiliated, I curl in on myself trying hard to hide my indecency. They yell at me to stand, but I can't; my body is frail and my mind in shambles—I stay where I am. The howls raise a few decibels. Furrowing my eyebrows, I work hard to keep it all out. Without warning, I am hoisted by the arm and brutally dragged to my feet.

I stand on wobbly knees and gaze up at a group of perhaps ten people, all men but one—though it's hard to be sure. Most are in blue scrubs; some in white coats and about four are in yellow rubber jumpsuits. They hold hoses; my eyes plead with them. Thoughts run amuck as they take aim at me. I lower my head, desperately hoping to protect at least my eyes.

The water hits me sharply and I double over onto the floor. They wade around to get my sides; there is no mercy in the pressurized water. I lay my head on my forearms and silently weep. This is pain, but it's my own damn fault. This could have been avoided: if only I was more careful. If only I was stronger, a different person perhaps, then I wouldn't be here again. Tania—I don't think I'll be making it home to you…

My mind becomes fuzzy from the force of the chill water against my bared flesh. Ten agonizing minutes and then all comes to a stop. I can hear the water draining off to my side somewhere, and I let go of the breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. Kneeling I look down at my tattered legs and I can see lose skin and blood run off into the drain. Bitterly, I watch the last of my humanity begin to be washed away. The four in yellow come and yank me to stand once more. Before I can gain any kind of coordination in my legs, I am roughly jabbed to walk forward. I step from the room into a very large hallway. There, I am clothed in cerulean blue bottoms and a backless shirt and hauled of for blood testing.

* * *

I've been sitting here with an IV draining into my arm for over an hour now, and still no sign of the nurse that had earlier taken a blood sample. The ropes are beginning to chafe my arms and I am finding myself quickly becoming frustrated. It's unnerving how completely I've changed, about a week ago I would have had the patience that only a rag doll rightfully claims, but lately I've become so quick to temper. I speculate it has something to do with this virus I have contracted. I suppose that if I am to turn into a Prawn then I should have understood that I am to become just as ill mannered and belligerent as they have shown to be.

I stare at my mangled arm—stripped of flesh by an encroaching bodily crusade. I remember back to what the little one had said to me when I first sought refuge in District 9: "We are the same," …sounds ironic now, knowing the truth of the matter. Soon enough, little one; soon we will be akin in more than mere appearances; I will live like you, crave and desecrate like your kind. It's satirical, replaying a moment passed, wishing to go back because you have something more to say, because suddenly you realize the way the world is.

I have already proved that to be true. When pitted against every ounce of my will, my body gave into thirst. It acted as if not my own. At the back of my mind I was shrill, yet only a faint whisper to that of the intoxicating smell of cat food that this foreign, stiff cadaver was listening to. I could see hands moving swiftly to wipe the tin clean of food before any was reposesed. My conscience is mortified, no matter what I tried I couldn't wrangle my limbs. I waited for it to finish, while giving the expertly cooked 3 course meal sidelong glances. Never in all of my days would I have thought that something would take hold of me so tightly that after a week of hunger I would pass up a gourmet meal for a single can of cat food.

Though my body refused to act accordingly, thankfully my mind was still my own; for the time being of course. I silently watched the Lab-coats scratch notes while the rest of me gorged itself on what was left of the offer. Sickend that my likeliness would devour normal food under the label of second helpings. My body is reacting in precisely the way they were anticipating. It shames me to have to bear this, though I keep levelheaded anyways.

I shake my head as if to scatter what I've been thinking, for I've realized my thoughts are getting the best of me. For now my focus is to be on escape, MNU has captured me twice now; I intend to take my freedom in turn. Torn from my incessant tangent, I turn to face the door swing open. Finally my long awaited nurse has returned with a handful of syringes. I shrink into my makeshift bed, watching him intently. He drops the lot of them on my lap, his hands freed, he pulls the IV out form under my skin. I'm supposing they also wanted a diluted blood sample for some reason, not that I really have to think far and wide to guess what the samples are for.

I habitually look away as he takes another pint of blood. By now I am feeling all but woozy and entirely surprised with my own mortality. Between the earlier fight and the week-long open soars, I'm not entirely sure if the blood he's siphoning is my own anymore. Then again, I suppose it helps to solidify that fact when some of it comes red and some black in color. For the passed two days it seems—again I am only estimating, I have decidedly had no sleep. They are admittedly brighter than I had originally given them credit for. MNU keeps me in continual rotation between parallel, ongoing experimentation to keep me weak and at a minimal threat. Aside from the occasional episode of unconsciousness, I haven't rested in more than 72 hours. With this said, I aim to get some rest here, though it will be a first—I've never slept while having blood taken before.

* * *

Hey there readers! I had to cut the chapter off hear or else it would be too long before I could find another break in the story. I also apologize for I seem to have formed a bad habit ending chapters with sleep It just feels like a complete thought to punctuate a chapter with drowsiness, however, I do promise to stop once the story moves on. Speakfire I am so sorry but I had to do this to him, there was no other way; you'll see why as the story beings to come together. Miss Lunacy and Yxme24 thanks for the favs and to all my readers and reviewers Thank You!


	4. Chapter 4

Hey everyone! Sorry for the long wait, college has been demanding. So here's a longish chapter to carry you over. Enjoy!

* * *

I only, fully wake once I'm smashed, head first into a pair of swinging doors. Despite, any immediate head trauma, I pleasantly consider the fact that I had soundly slept through being unshackled from bed and then carelessly dragged the entire length of the hallway. Once carried inside, I am promptly dropped to the floor and left to make it up to stand on my own merits. I quickly take notice of a physician that has stepped out from the throng and is making his way over to examine me. His Stacy-Adams scuttle into my view shortly after, and I lift my stare to give him a crooked smile. Disregarded, I hang my head and consider the shoes he's warring. 'MNU must pay these guys in gold bricks' I reason.

I hear a siren sound and a few pieces of machinery shift along their designated rails. I sigh, preparing for what I know is to come next; I must be at the shooting range again. Slowly staggering to my feet, I look about the room. It's very large, painted pale blue and crescendos with high ceilings. The walls are reinforced concrete and the place looks to have been once part of a parking garage.

I swiftly notice that the upright table has been the one noisily riding its railings. I calmly watch the pack of researchers stalk towards me; I stand still, eager not to cause trouble. To my surprise, I am taken hold of and tied to a near by chair. This particular chair is centered at the backend of the room and nowhere near the weapons bank, by which I had been my previous visit.

There is muffled screaming coming from behind the side entrance doors directly ahead, though slightly off to my right. Curious, I wait to see what's about to take fold. Abruptly, the doors pry open and a struggling man, in his early forties, is pressed through—musing, I believe he resembles ground beef being forced through the small colander-like holes, writhing about in a decently circular motion. He is then punctually tided to the testing table.

I am puzzled: why was this man covered head to toe in bleeding hives? The yokes of his eyes yellow… I grievance, unable to place the look shot to me just as he was shoved along, thrashing to the stand. It was distinctly accusing, as if he was condemning me personally for this chapter of his life. I remember it clearly. I watched him make the entire trip to the apparatus, not once did his gaze fall anywhere else. I feel my unease come bleeding back to me. What could I possibly have done to this man to excite such emotion?

The place is coming back to life, filling with noise much like the a record that has found it's rhythm again. Everything is shifting about; this place is like an ants nest. My attention is drawn away from the bustling as testing ensues.

I observe the first weapon coast next to him. Without warning, I am torn from my seat and shuffled to the raised backrest next to the strapped, unnamed individual. I wince as the weapon is forced into my rapidly deforming right arm. Looking at the appendage, I am strangely pleased that the spread of the infection has chosen to suffer my limb at the shoulder. Claws are awkward and have limited mobility; I am contempt to at least have the solace of the use of my favorite hand.

The shackles and belts are mismatched and awkward around my wrists and ankles. Recently, I have been feeling my bones elongating—breaking, reforming. It's also apparent that I've gotten physically taller, though it's not overly noticeable. It's small things like this that lay bare just how far this transformation has come. Not excluding my heightened senses as another. From somewhere in the far end of the room I hear the slap of wood and narration. He had said the control?

Me.

A pig is rolled in front of my mute companion and me. Immediately, I feel ease and relax into the teaser at my neck. My body convulses. A shot is fired. I focus on the dismembered pig before me, tucking away the loathing surging through me. Why was there no warning, no direction! I forcibly slow my breathing and straighten my back. I feel weary eyes on me. I turn to my accomplice, watching him with malice. Angry, I wish the same to befall him.

Disengaging myself, I look to where the smoke has cleared and the chunks of pig come to rest on the floor. Without delay, a new swine is making its way to the previously occupied site. I hear the rails creek and my gaze shifts to the gun that has seesawed between us. I follow the gun to his face; momentarily his features contort with fear. He has watched what has transpired me. He's stiff; I can see his mind's racing, eyes darting from the pig to the gun and back around the space. He understands the impeccable nature of this place.

Fears it.

"Commencing test. Testing Variable: A." I don't have to look to know what's going on. His yelps grow louder as the taster wires his body taut for the third consecutive time. I look past my shoulder as best I can. For now I'm only hearing the coinciding patter of feet. Making their way to test subject 'A'. I can see the pride of experimentalists begin to unfasten the shaken man from the board and bring him to stand before the strung up boar. My breathing hitches, and I begin to perspire.

Screaming!

I'm hearing shrieking again. I can already tell that it's coming down the same side-winding hallway. I only pray that I won't be later forced to kill this one too. My brows crease as both the dead man standing before me and I, in tune, anticipate the doors' breaching. A foot first, then the rest of the body is thrown through. A young man is ushered in to replace my recovering party at the firing stand. Suddenly, I spot his dismantled arms. I cringe, though I'm aware that my appearance mirrors his. He is tethered to the iron plank to my right and latched to the warm rife. The weapon is placed in his left hand first, which exhibits the same kind of scaly growth as my own.

The trigger is pulled.

Silence falls.

None lay.

I release my breath, whilst eyeing my neighbor. He's choking on sobs; having difficulty breathing. I observe the firearm be placed in his other hand—one distinctly marred more than the other, disembodied. It is an alien hand distinctly sewn on were a human wrist once found use. I watch keenly as the rifle is secured to the foreign appendage. Interestingly, the hosts face shows no recognition of the happening. I come to the conclusion that he has no feeling left in the hand, perhaps he never did, perhaps the nerves were spliced poorly through surgery.

He looks as though he's touched live wire, rigid and inert. Again no shots are fired. I twist to watch the foremost subject stand weak on his knees and begin to spill tears. Abruptly, I have slinked back around and am engrossed in what is taking hold of the young boys hand. I examine the frantic scientists fumble—each trying to correct the present issue. Finally, one amongst the masses grabs hold of the boy's hand and squeezes.

A sudden flash of lightning, blood ribbons through the air. A somber rain of disorientated bits starts, all ranging in size, but mostly in placement. I look back, but the man is no longer present. I can hear wild sobbing just over the ringing in my ears.

I feel hot tears singe my cheeks, I don't understand why I cry for a death not my own. I did not know this individual, but I grieve for his life. Perhaps he was a good man, helpful and law abiding—fed the hungry on his weekends. Perhaps he was the kind of man I could aspire to be—lived an honorable life, been a more deserving person than I. Who says I shouldn't have been the one to go. This man may have had a family, two beautiful little girls—blonde, they look like their mother: angelic. It should have been me! I have no reason to stay here.

I am torn from my mourning when the screams rise to fill the entire room. Like water filling a tub, his trembling voice has invaded every eardrum, every crevasse, every nook and cranny. Dumbfounded, I watch the youngling thrash and shout, not sure what to do with myself. Whilst being caught in the tangle of my thoughts I barely register the boy being torn from the warmed cast-iron stand. I watch exasperated as he is made to stand and positioned before the blood drawn wall.

Within seconds MNU operatives rush the premises, inhumanly gunning down the innocent. This time there is no succor of small misshapen bits that stand to prove a mostly painless and altogether not outstretched death. Instead, there lies before me the still writing body of a young man in his prime; still tied to his promising future, only, it too has left with him. I feel myself choke on a sob, then let out a whimper. My God, this was the last thing I would have imagined. Why were they so eager to exterminate their experiments? Through my tears I distinguish the five gray figures huddled together being to twist and face me. Their rifles come into focus first, though I'm not paying attention to much else. They do not shoot, obliviously I am still of some kind value to MNU.

A soldier motions me to step down from my podium; I stare blankly at him for a moment. Irate hands seize my arms and fling me to the earth. Only once my cheek contacts the cool cement flooring, do I realize that I have stood and watched untied this entire time. I feel a warm hand press hard at the nape of my neck, and all too suddenly I am again up in the air and being shuffled to a place unspecified.

* * *

Stumbling over the risen threshold of the doorway, I quickly regain my step and pass through. Like clockwork, the pride of MNU employees begins its track down to the den with teeth clenched at my gullet. A few minutes pass and the pervasive shoving finally dies away and I am free to walk the remainder of the subway-like hall without further harassment.

Doing my best to keep to the pace wordlessly instructed, I take the opportunity and look around the place. I scrutinize each room as we pass: detailing. Each is set with a 4-inch thick steel vault door—there are no windows. The air about me hangs heavy and I can taste its bitterness. This place reeks of stagnation. I quickly recognize the stench of human sweat. In it I can pick apart medical alcohol, blood, and something else. I'm not familiar with this last smell. Methodically, I trace it to an open door and like a questioning bird; I crane my neck to peer inside.

Sweat begins to form at my temples. My dampened shirt is clinging to my chest. Cold air paints soft brushstrokes across my exposed perspiring back. Dryly swallowing back my apprehension, I continue to look on. I am aware now that I have stopped and can hear voices somewhere off in the distance.

This is no time for distractions.

Take it all in…

I suppose it was only a matter of time. We're smart we figured it out. Though, perhaps it took longer than was hoped for. We were so excited—didn't think. Now we realize: why change what we are, what already is, when you can use what has already been provided. We never had to break the code; understand their foreign genetic make up. We didn't need to be them to find functionality in what they had come barring. What they had gifted us with. We could remain separate, never akin, however joined.

We've had the pieces all along: it was only a matter of arrangement. We had ourselves, we had their weapons and we have plenty of them. What are a few among millions? The equation is simple: take the Control and substitute the Variable. Simple… why try controlling the variable, when you can just incorporate it. Take an arm, maybe a hand and substitute!

It's vicious, I admit, but it works…keeps me out of the crosshairs.

There are hundreds of bodies piling up at our feet, why force the earth to shoulder their sewage. Put them to use. Take a piece and sew a patch here, a patch there. I am disgusted. What we're doing here is more unnatural to this land than I.

Speechless, I watch the hand be severed, the airborne color, the soundless screaming. I watch her writhe in perfect motion, held down with belts and aided by nothing. There is no medicine being administered, it's just an experiment, a meaningless endeavor, provided that it yields nothing. She is not alone; there are at lest a dozen more in the room with her. Each Martian prosthetic is unique, placed accordingly to better splice the nerve endings.

The room is crusted with old blood, some black in essence. I can see a mound of anatomized cadavers.

Prawn biology is perhaps less difficult to affix with human anatomy, than is to replicate.

(TBC)

* * *

I would like to update soon but we'll see how much time I'll have to allocate to this story between studying. That aside, I would like to thank my reviews—you're kind words help me put in the essential time and effort that this story, and any story for that matter rightfully deserves. Sadly, updating is tedious for the reasons that first person is awkward to write and for the most part biased. I feel bad that I cannot bluntly reveal a lot of what's going on. Readers, the clues are all there, but I am tied down to telling the story from the eyes of Wikus which I find to be more taxing than writing in third person. But hey, practice makes perfect and those were my reasons for writing it this way in the first place! I hope I'm not asking too much of you, though I'm sure most catch these clues without the least bit of thought involved. Anyways, thank you for reading!

_Speakfire—His facial anatomy has slightly __changed but not completely so. He's still part human, for now. However, it does afflict his speaking. I appreciate your reviews; you make me knead the plot that much longer. I look forward to them each post. Thank you! _

_Miss Lunacy—I am most honored and will try my best to have this story live up to your expectations! Thank you! _


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